by Ryan Montgomery
I was small
when silence learned my name.
Rooms taught me early
that truth could get you punished,
that fear wears adult faces
and calls itself love.
I carried secrets heavier than my body,
learned how to behave
instead of being protected.
They said I was the problem—
as if pain chooses children on purpose.
Doors closed.
Voices decided my future without listening.
Control dressed up like discipline,
and I learned how fast
home can turn into a sentence.
Time passed.
The lies aged badly.
Silence grew teeth.
I grew too.
I’m not that child anymore,
the one who swallowed screams
to keep the peace.
I learned that peace built on fear
was never peace at all.
Some people spend their lives
running from mirrors,
collecting excuses,
calling loneliness “fate.”
Meanwhile, I built myself
out of what they tried to bury.
Every scar became a receipt.
Every breath an act of defiance.
I don’t need revenge.
Life already told the truth.
I stand here grown,
still breathing,
still speaking,
proof that survival
is louder than denial.
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